


Recruitment

by scurvaliciousbay



Series: CAM AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: AU, F/M, Feynite Fan Work, Inquisitor as a companion AU, Joining the Inquisition, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scurvaliciousbay/pseuds/scurvaliciousbay
Summary: Miriel joins the Inquisition. An AU where my Miriel (a Lavellan in canon, a different clan here, but it's really just technical) and LittleLotte's Aili are companions and Feynite's Uthvir is the Inquisitor. Miriel x Solas, Aili x Uthvir





	Recruitment

**Author's Note:**

> Aili belongs to LittleLotte
> 
> Uthvir belongs to Feynite

An old wagon rolls down the road. The farmer sitting atop of it urges his mule forward with clicking noises and gentle flicks of the reigns. The mule protests the movement through the mud but does its best to continue to the town. They are slow moving and unarmed, and the wagon is laden with the farmer’s harvest. They are a perfect target for bandits.

Miriel waits in a nearby tree, leaping from branch to branch to monitor the farmer’s progress. They have little coin but she promised she’d protect him if she can. She keeps to the trees like she’s been trained to do. Her eyes are sharp and her weapons sharper.

Bandits are not unexpected after the appearance of the Breach. There are always those who are looking to take advantage of chaos to prey on people. And some bandits are simply those who have been created by simple need caused by the chaos. Banditry – when prey become predators.

But she is a hunter and she has hunted more than her fair share of predators in her time.

The bandits are predictable in where they set up – in one of the muddier parts of the road where the mule won’t be able to run, even if loosed from the wagon.

“Hand it over, old man,” the one she presumes is leading the troupe commands. He is a grotesque man, with oily hair and missing teeth so that spit flies from his mouth with every word. Many of the men with him are barely out of boyhood, and none of them look like they want to be there. The older ones are just as unclean as their leader. Their armaments are lackluster, all stolen or hobbled together poorly from piss poor attempts at hunting.

Farmer Griswold narrows his eyes, “You’re not getting any.”

“Bad choice, old man,” the leader spits. That’s her cue. Miriel drops down from the trees and lands behind the leader. She reaches up and breaks his neck, then turns and launches her knives into the older bandits.

She stops to look at the newer members, “You have a choice. You can fight…and die, or you can lay your arms down and beg forgiveness from the ones you robbed.” The young men and shrink back at her appearance. One glances at a nearby sword only to have the kid next to him slap his arm.

After composing himself from the shock, one shuffles forward, “And what…what if they don’t forgive us?”

Miriel turns to Griswold, “What do you humans do with those who break such laws?”

“Jail! That’s what we do,” Griswold says triumphantly.

“We didn’t know what to do! A rift destroyed our town with all its demons, we had no money and then Gunter there said he could help us. We never wanted this to happen,” the boy continues. Miriel’s eyebrows draw together and she lets out a short sigh.

Predators turning prey into predators to make their pack bigger. It’s disgraceful.

“Offer your services to the villagers here – as hands on farms, or guards, whatever they need. Put your skills to work helping people, not robbing them,” Miriel instructs and they heave a sigh of relief. Griswold harrumphs, but he’s not exactly in a position to argue with her.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I’m no sh – human lady. My name is Miriel,” she tells them and they nod, their eyes darting around her face. She may be the first dalish elf they’ve ever seen, she doesn’t know, and they seem wary enough to not touch her when she gestures for them to help her move the wagon through the mud.

She guides them to town where Griswold directs his harvest to the miller and she takes the boys to the center of the square. There is a small gathering in the square, all staring at her and her new charges. She has them turn around and face those who will decide their fates.

“Your bandits are done with. They leave behind strong capable hands, good for…farming, building, and defending if only given a chance,” she declares. The milling towns people glare at the boys, five in number, but soon people begin to raise their voices. Several are in need of farm hands, and another simply needs someone to help patch the worn-down buildings in the town.

“And what of the rift?” Another asks.

“Which one?” There are two in the lands surrounding the town. None of them know how to handle them, and general instruction has been to avoid them.

“There’s a third one! Popped on poor Mitty’s farm last night, pourin’ demons left and right.”

Mitty’s farm, that’s…north of the town, close. Miriel bites her lip and tries to think of what they can do. Or really her. When the Templars left, they took with them the only force capable of handling such a situation. The guards are used to petty squabbles and bar fights, not demons and magic.

One of the Chantry’s Mothers or Sisters strides forward, her eyes like daggers aimed at Miriel. She is slow and purposeful, holding her hands in front of her but her head is high, topped with what Miriel can only describe as a ridiculously tall hood. The crowd parts for her as she steps in front of Miriel, looking at each person in the crowd before speaking.

“Do not listen to her, good towns people, I warned you about the danger of this woman, but you did not listen. We now have another rift! Why do you think that is? She knows no Maker, only her blasphemous gods,” the mother calls.

Miriel takes a deep breath and bows her head. This seems…inevitable, really. And she had warned Griswold not to accept Miriel’s help. Never mind it’s only been a couple of days and the two previous rifts were here before Miriel’s arrival. But Fereldan superstition and faith runs deep. She is ultimately an outsider, and the Mother is a religious leader who by all accounts is more known and trusted in the town than Miriel.

Yet, Miriel does not flinch away from the woman or her words.

“I do not worship your god, but that does not mean I do not know faith. I have fought bandits for you, I remain here, wanting to help,” she assures but the mother’s eyes narrow and she can see the unease in the townspeople around her. They’ll sooner accept the former bandits than they will her, it seems. The boys are more predictable, even if they were once with the bandits.

“But I shall not bother you any further if it will cause you strife,” she says, stealing the mother’s power to expel her by leaving on her own terms.

Mitty’s farm has demons? She doesn’t have experience with fighting demons, but she knows that they die like anything else if you stick them enough times. And as one of clan Bellenan’s best hunters, she is very good at sticking things.

Her camp is in the woods, small and secure in a small copse of trees. It’s not much, mostly rations, arrows, and a few other supplies necessary to survive away from the clan. She makes her way back to it, avoiding main roads and people. Humans are unfortunately volatile when it comes to her people, tending to err on the violent intolerant side. Even in southern Antiva they faced violence and persecution for taking their aravels through sparsely populated areas. With the mother in the town espousing her intolerance of Miriel’s presence, she knows it will not be long before the whole of the town will turn on her.

But she can help in the meantime.

She slings her pack onto her back and heads out to scout Mitty’s farm. The stench of sulfur and smoke guides her to the homestead where a rift wobbles tenuously above a corn field. Apocalyptic green light spills from the rift, and with it come demons. They are gnarled, old looking things with spikes covering their bodies and horns that sprout from where their eyes should be. A cloaked demon slinks around on the edges of the farm, sticking to the shadows. Its eyes are an icy glowing blue, watching as the other demons stroll undaunted through the farm.

With each shudder of the rift, the demons twitch and lash out at whatever is around them. Fences, other demons, buildings are all slashed in senseless destruction. Curious.

After a moment, it becomes clear that the demons are all moving to surround one structure. A shed on the outskirts of the farm, clearly away from the barn and the main house, but it is a sturdy thing judging how it stands up against one of the larger demons slamming against it. It shrieks a high-pitched wail of the damned that rattles in Miriel’s skull and speeds her heart up.

What is in that shed?

There are four of the green demons, with the largest one preoccupied with the shed. One of them trails around the back of the group, twitching and small, almost deformed in how it moves. The demon in the shadows still lurks, its eyes focused on the shed. There could be more of those, it’s impossible to tell without the telltale glowing eyes. Wisps float around the shed, combining to press against it.

Miriel shifts around from her vantage point. She moves up the back of the homestead so she can quickly run up to the main house. Its wood is broken and charred from the green fires, but it hides her as she pads her way through the house. She climbs to the roof via a nearly dead ladder. The thatched roof is in no better condition than the rest of the house, but it holds miraculously as she stalks forward with her bow. She notches arrows as she goes, keeping herself low to the roof to not draw attention.

In hunting, you go for the stragglers – the ones that can’t get away so easily. They won’t be missed and they will most likely die anyways, and naturally she aims for the smaller deformed demon off the back of the group. But this isn’t just hunting, this is aiming to kill them all.

She adjusts her aim, pulls the arrow taught then looses it. The arrow flies into the head of the largest demon banging on the shed. It yowls in unexpected pain. All heads snap towards her and she quickly notches three arrows together. She lets them fly into the body of the large demon, felling or crippling it so that it crumples to the ground on a scream.

The three smaller green demons shriek in unison and launch themselves at the house. They leap onto the roof and bend unnaturally towards her. The shadowed demon hisses and the air grows cold.

Thinking best of it, Miriel turns and jumps down the hole to the main floor. Something slams into the roof just as she turns and makes a run out the back. She palms a dagger and turns to throw it into the face of the deformed demon. It shudders, its body grotesquely expanding before it collapses into itself. In the blink of an eye, only green light remains of the demon, flitting back in the direction of the rift.

Miriel continues to run, notching another arrow. There are two on her now, plus the wisps, and the shadow demon.

This was reckless, she knows, and there is a solid chance she will die. For humans who want her dead anyways.

Well, shit, she ought to prove them wrong.

She makes for the trees, turning to fire an arrow that lands in the throat of one of the green demons. It gurgles and stops. She runs a bit farther, turns, and puts another arrow into it. But this eats up time, and the last green demon jumps her. She goes down, grappling with the gross smelling thing. It wails at her, saliva drips from its maw as it moves against her.

Thinking quickly, Miriel grabs a knife from her belt and drags it up the demon’s belly, slicing as deeply and thoroughly as she can manage. It seizes, grabbing at her, tearing through her armor, talons sinking into the flesh of her shoulders. But she keeps at it, screaming with the thing until it shudders, sputters, and turns to green light.

She gasps for air, rolling to her feet, only to see the shadow demon barreling towards her with its cadre of wisps. As she is about to run, a loud voice echoes through the wood in command.

“MOVE!”

She leaps to the side just as a large mount barrels past her. She covers her head reflexively and hears the echo of battle through her hands. A despairing moan fills the air accompanied by the swirling twinges of magic. The area is suddenly filled with green light and she hazards a glance up.

The demons are miraculously gone. An armored elf stands beneath the warbling rift, their hand lifted up towards it. A glowing tether connects them to the rift, the green magic wrapping itself around their hand and wrist. Magic ripples through the farm and then the elf tugs. The rift breaks apart like shattering glass, shards of it dissipating into thin air before they hit the ground.

The elf shakes out their hand and turns from the rift, as if it was…nothing. She’d heard rumors of someone able to close the rifts but she didn’t truly believe them, but this…this is irrefutable.

Miriel swallows, trying to calm herself, when a hand lands on her shoulder and another elf takes up her vision. She startles, but quickly settles as her eyes rest upon familiar vallaslin.

“Lethallan, are you alright?” The woman asks, her face familiar but accent different from Miriel is used to.

Miriel nods, “Thanks to your group’s timely arrival.” The woman helps pull her up to standing. She assesses the rest of the seemingly ragtag group now surrounding her. The elven woman who helped her up is small, even smaller than Miriel, with wild blonde curls. She holds a staff that vibrates with warm magic. Off to the side is an elven man, abnormally tall and bald, his face bare. Miriel glances at the elf that had charged down the demons, flanked by a tall human woman with a steel helm.

“Who are you?” She asks.

“The Inquisition, recently formed. Uthvir, the one who closed the rift, is often called the Herald of Andraste.” Pieces fall together in Miriel’s mind as she realizes the rumors concerning the ‘False Herald’ are probably…exaggerated considering this Uthvir’s clear roots.

“You have impeccable timing, that is for sure,” Miriel says, grabbing her things.

“Regardless of title, they are able to close rifts, the nearby townspeople are in great need of that. This is not the only one to be plaguing them, only the most recent,” she tells them.

“I am sure we can spare the time to help them,” the woman assures. “I am Aili, and that’s Solas. Cassandra is riding with Uthvir.”

“Aneth’ara and well-met,” Miriel greets just as Uthvir and Cassandra ride over, their mounts sounding excessively tired from the strain.

“Taking on demons by yourself is excessively reckless,” Uthvir chides. They are all at once familiar and foreign with the sharp edges of their armor but the blood red vallaslin upon their face mirrors Miriel’s own. Miriel grins and shrugs.

“I was the most equipped to deal with them at the time, I could hardly not do anything while innocent people were threatened.”

“That is noble of you,” Solas comments, breaking his silence. She smiles at him and inclines her head.

“Who are you? We were not expecting to see any Dalish in these parts,” Cassandra asks, her accent thick and unlike the others.

Miriel places her hands on her hips and watches the woman carefully. There is a Chantry symbol on her armor and it is difficult to trust anyone associated with the Chantry. Uthvir and Aili, while working with this Inquisition, have familiar faces even if they are new, and it is comforting. Cassandra and even Solas are unknowns and a wariness snakes around inside of her.

“My name is Miriel, of clan Bellenan. I was on my way to the Conclave when it blew up. My clan wanted to know how to react to whatever the sh – humans decided. While you fight your war, our people often get caught in the middle of mindless attacks,” she explains and Aili nods in agreement.

“And your clan did not simply vanish into the woods?” Solas asks.

“It’s a bit difficult when there are eighty people in your clan,” Miriel says dryly.

“ _Eighty?_ ” Aili asks incredulously. It’s a point of pride of how large the clan is. But logistically, it can be difficult and dangerous to hold such numbers.

“Yes, eighty. Sometimes we give the humans a fright. But that’s not the issue at hand - I got waylaid by these villagers who were reporting issues with bandits. Demons, I am not the best to deal with admittedly, but I can stick a bandit.” Miriel gestures to the shed across the field.

“The demons were trying to get into this shed,” she explains, ushering them to follow her. Something prickles at the back of her skull and she worries what might be in the shed.

Most of the crops are burned or withered away from the polluted magic. They will not recover easily from this blow. Poor Mitty and his wife. Amazingly enough the shed is still standing, albeit scorched and scratched.

She knocks on the door, pauses, then speaks.

“Hello? Is anyone in there? We won’t hurt you, the demons are gone,” she says sweetly. There is a moment of silence before she hears a rustle beyond the door. There is a loud thud and the sound of heavy boxes sliding across the floor before the door cracks open to reveal a small girl, most likely in her teens.

Miriel smiles, “Hello, my name is Miriel. Me and my friends here got rid of the demons, you’re safe now.” She assures them. The door opens a bit wider, revealing a younger girl behind her, her face dirty and tear-streaked. Miriel bends down to look in the girl’s wide eyes.

“Is your father Mitty?” She asks softly and the girl slowly shakes her head.

“He’s our uncle,” the older girl says, “took us in after a rift took our ma and pa.”

Miriel’s face falls, “You’re Paul’s girls, aren’t you?”

They nod and Miriel sighs. She ushers them out of the shed, checking for wounds.

“You know the towns people well enough to know their names?” Uthvir asks.

“I’ve only been here a few days, but I have worked to help as best I can. The town has not been lucky,” she replies, brushing the dirt and sooth off the girls. She pats their heads and brings them close.

“I can take them to town, but I must implore you to investigate the rifts around the area. There are two more, one of the Cander farm and another on the Platchard homestead, a little further out, but they pose threats to the town.” She asks and Uthvir is the first to nod, which…means the most. They are the one who will be closing the rifts after all.

“They will be closed, but you mentioned the townspeople running you off – perhaps you would like an escort? We could use a meal as well,” they venture and she nods.

“If it pleases you.”

They are quick to grab their steed, then surprise her by lifting the girls up onto the horse. The rest of the horses are brought to them and they walk to the town. Miriel informs them of the rifts and the isolated people in the town, as well as the Chantry and lack of people able to handle any threats of demons or even bandits.

“How’d you come through here, anyways? We are away from the Breach, which is your primary focus, no?” Miriel asks.

“The Inquisition has business on the Storm Coast in looking for allies against the Breach,” Uthvir replies.

“I’m glad we came across the town! Creators know what would have happened otherwise,” Aili comments, pulling along a rather recalcitrant horse along. Her nose twitches and she sneezes then curses at the beast. Miriel’s brow furrows and a wry smile spreads across her lips.

“Did you really name your horse ‘Fen’Harel’?”

“Yes, because it is a dreadful, spiteful thing,” she says, sneezing once more. Uthvir smirks while Solas scowls. Perhaps it is a specific Dalish type of humor then, she snorts all the same.

“I am still stuck on your clan having  _eighty_ people,” Aili says.

“It’s what happens when people decide to have  _a lot_ of babies. Keeper Sulari has six children, Haharen Bainal has eight just to give you an idea of what happened. The last two decades have been very kind, so many of our members are young children. When they come of age, Bellenan will split and the children will take a new name for their clan. And many of them are mages, more than normal. You can understand then why we wanted to be prepared for what happened at the Conclave.”

Aili’s face falls, “And it blew up, some blame mages.”

“I doubt it was the mages,” Cassandra assures.

“Perception and reality rarely depict the same thing,” Solas comments. It’s unfortunate, but he’s right. Mages may not be responsible for the Breach, demons and rifts and the fade are all associations with magic and therefore mages – they’ll be invariably targeted and blamed for this. And clans like Miriel’s will also suffer, caught in the middle of ridiculous shemlen politics and perceptions of magic.

The rest of the ride to the town is quiet but pleasant. Miriel pays close attention to the girls, making sure they aren’t injured in any capacity…well, more than scarred for life after demons just tried to kill them. They’re so young to be dealing with this, but they’ll be strong – they’ll need to be in the coming months. Chaos is a growing, festering thing that sucks in as many people as possible, tossing out victims in its wake.

Miriel guides them across the main bridge leading into the town and the girls are quick to point out their uncle Mitty standing in the town square. There is a group of townspeople around him, holding farming equipment.

Oh no.

“It’s a mob,” Uthvir says in a grim tone.

“To run me out or to confront the demons?” Miriel wonders. The girls look down at her in shock and worry.

“Neither! You rescued us, let us down, we’ll tell them!” The eldest demands. Uthvir looks skeptical but they lower the girls to the ground from the horse. They are quick to bolt towards the crowd, shouting for their uncle.

“We should leave now, quietly,” Uthvir says but it’s too late. The crowd spots them as the girls rejoin their people. Besides Mitty stands the Mother, her form tall in the fading light of the day.

“They closed the rift on the farm, uncle!” The eldest girl says. The crowd falls quiet in disbelief while the Mother goes stiff.

“They what?”

Uthvir coughs while Miriel steps forward, “They are with the Inquisition, this is Uthvir, they have the ability to close rifts. They have agreed to investigate the other rifts in the area, as well.” She tells them.

The towns people begin to talk among themselves, loud and incoherent speech debating on what just happened. Above them the Mother glowers.

“You told us you were leaving,” the Mother says over the crowd.

“Did you not just hear what we said? Those girls are safe because of our actions,” Miriel calls back.

“It may be best to leave the town and deal with the rifts separately,” Solas murmurs from behind her. Cassandra scoffs and strides forward.

“Mother, we are here to help, we are no threat to your people.”

“All I know is that the demons showed up and have not left since the arrival of that heathen, and now there are not one but  _three_. They have turned their backs on the Maker and He has turned his back on them,” the Mother replies.

“The Dalish are not responsible for the Conclave!” Miriel declares.

“Your Reverence,” Cassandra begins but the towns people are closer and quicker, surprisingly to Miriel’s defense.

“She brought my nieces back. Maker keep my brother, no one could save him, but she got his daughters back. And she helped Old Man Griswold. I don’t know anything about no demons or magic – but that don’t sound like the kind of person who would bring demons here,” Mitty says, holding his nieces close.

Miriel’s heart clenches for a moment, despite the fear and anger roiling inside her. Humans aren’t ones to stand up for elves, particularly for the Dalish. In truth, when she had set forth from her clan down to the Conclave, she had worried about how she’d be received, even in passing. Her vallaslin is not bold, but it is there and extensive, as are the rest of her tattoos. Her accent and mannerisms gave her away and for once, she had no way to hide. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

But here she is, standing at the front of a town, watching a human vouch for her. Standing up to his religious leader.

Cassandra appears to be fed up with the Mother as well as she strides through the crowd. She looms over the Mother and there are heated words exchanged. While Miriel isn’t sure what is said, it must be strong enough for the Mother to retreat back into her Chantry, away from the townspeople.

The crowd opens up and surges towards their group. Uthvir, Solas, and even Aili stiffen as humans surround them with raucous laughter.

The crowd then moves them all towards the tavern. For the next hour, the town plies them with beer and food and thanks for removing the rift. Uthvir becomes a center of their gratitude, ooh’ing and awing at the mark on their hand.

Aili and Miriel sit off to the side while Solas not so discreetly simply leaves. Cassandra is presumably still off discussing matters with the clearly distressed Mother. She’s still uneasy, particularly around this many inebriated humans, but she is glad at least to know that they are less inclined to run her off just for her ears and face. Not that it’s a small issue. Humans have shat upon her people since discovering elves, and her people do not bow easily. They fight, often brutally.

“So why did you stay to help the humans?” Aili asks. It’s a good question. Miriel harbors no love for humans, but….

“My father raised me to be kind and to do what I can. The bandits attacked children, I stopped them, and then…it got out of hand,” she tells Aili. Human they may be, but she is not like them. She is good, and she will do what she can.

“I could ask the same of you, the Inquisition a rather human filled organization, no? And Uthvir, as Dalish as they are, ‘The Herald of Andraste’ smacks of the Chantry,” Miriel asks. Aili nods, biting a lip, shrugging in agreement.

“True. But I saw the Conclave explode, saw the chaos, and the demons – this is bigger than us, this harms everyone. And Uthvir is…good, if in a roundabout way. Don’t tell them I said that, they like to think everyone finds them scary.”

Miriel chuckles at Aili’s assessment. Their armor is indeed covered in spikes and they tend to keep their eyes sharp and judging, it is surprising then to find the townspeople so ready to talk with them. Closing the rift must have been enough to convince them.

“I can’t believe a halla rider would be saving our arses – but now look! There are three of’em. Strange days, these are,” a drunk patron says loudly to Uthvir.

Miriel and Aili briefly bristle at the name, but Uthvir gives no indication that they are affronted. Which is good, Miriel thinks. It’s what’s needed in a leader, one who can brush insults off and move past them. The Keeper before Sulari, Nehana, was not so fortunate. And it got the clan into messes that could have been avoided. The clan had mourned his passing, but has heaved a collective breath of relief as the more level headed Sulari took over.

“You would do well to remember this then, the next time a clan passes by your town,” Uthvir replies and several of the townspeople nod, raising their pints in agreement.

“Oh yes, no traps or fires – only beer and gratitude from now on,” Mitty concurs loudly, his speech beginning to slur. It is concerning that traps and fire were the first thoughts that came to the farmer’s mind but Miriel lets it go, uninterested in more conflict.

Today was a victory, and she is going to run with it as much as she can.

Aili leans back in her chair, looking at the half empty pint in front of her. Miriel sips at her own, letting the alcohol warm her insides to a happy inebriation.

“ _Eighty_ people,” Aili murmurs again in shock, eliciting a chuckle from Miriel.

“Mostly young. We have thirty members under the age of twenty, it is…a nerve wracking state,” Miriel clarifies.

“Still…and you’re just waiting for them to get old enough to safely split?”

“We could split now…but there are too few experienced hunters and warriors to be able to guard two separate encampments. It’s a line we must toe. Normally an expedition like this would mean sending two hunters, a duo, but I had to leave my partner behind for safety.”

“Right, and to be keeping all the mages and not trading them…”

Miriel smiles wryly, “Keeper Sulari has mostly relegated the training of the mages to the First and Second, but there is only so much Atherin and Lynnan can teach without the Keeper’s oversight.”

“Right, some things  _must_ be passed down from the Keeper. How many mages do you have?”

“Nine, they’re thankfully sort of already divided in age groups. Atherin is thirty, Lynnan twenty-five. Then it’s Velahara, Enaste, Sylphin, Ileth, Maren, and Tonlen. Velahara is seventeen, Enaste is sixteen, Sylphin is fifteen, Ileth’s fourteen, Maren is thirteen, and Tonlen is ten. And who knows, we may have more, there are…twelve more children under the age of ten.”

“Creators, what happened?”

“We don’t know. The Keeper says we are blessed by Sylaise with bountiful children, blessed by Andruil to have so much ample food and skilled hunters. We’ve taken down several wyverns in recent years. But we worry,” Miriel concedes. It is odd. Their clan is having a run of good luck, but there is this niggling feeling in the back of the adults’ skulls that they are about to enter dark times, that this luck is fleeting and they have to be prepared. The children do not know much of strife, of just how hard it can be. The year before Miriel was born there was a drought that swept across all of Antiva. It killed much and it embittered the humans to the dalish who wandered too close. Raids were almost weekly at that point.

But now? There is bountiful food, happy children, and even the humans mind their business from them. It…is so good that the members of the clan who have lived in such hardship feel suspicious of it. Judging by Aili’s furrowed brow, she is suspicious of it as well.

“There are rules in most clans about the number of children one can have.”

“Oh we have those too. But it just…happened.”

Aili squinches her eyes and tries to think, “Perhaps you stumbled across a temple to Sylaise? I’ve heard stories of shrines and temples negating all protective measures against having children, before.”

Miriel shrugs. She doesn’t know, the Keeper may, but if she does, she has not revealed it to anyone perhaps save Atherin and Lynnan. Miriel’s job is to keep the game coming in, providing food, and materials to the artisans.

“Whatever it may be, we have to handle the situation now. I was distraught at the Breach and the Conclave blowing up, and part of me thought if I helped humans on the way back….”

“Perhaps you could ensure some safety for your clan,” Aili answers. Her brows draw together again and she looks speculative before she tilts her head and proposes an idea.

“It is still a long journey to Antiva, by then the Inquisition should hopefully have closed the Breach. Perhaps you could stay on, then, help close it quickly?” Aili suggests. Well, there is an idea.

Miriel glances over at Uthvir and the crowd that has assembled around them, listening in awe as they regale them with how they closed the rift. The two girls they saved are curled up sleeping against their uncle, happy and safe. She helped do that. She helped make all of this possible.

Her father raised her to do good where she can, and while it is not exactly her mother’s practicality…there is a necessity in closing the Breach. And there is a gain to be seen that Dalish elves are the ones working to close it.

Miriel clasps her near empty pint and raises it to Aili.

“Very well, Aili of clan Lavellan and the Inquisition, I will join you, and help close this Breach.”

Aili grins and clinks her pint back to Miriel’s. They down the rest of the beer, spiraling into proper drunkenness that has them giggling well into the night.


End file.
